Five Hundred Twentyfive Thousand
by Mrs Dionysius O'Gall
Summary: Someone's sleeping alone in the apartment above the diner. Or trying to...


He's alone in his bed above the diner. What once was a bed shared has now become a vast oasis of loneliness, sleeplessness his bedmate.

He's made excuse after excuse, from early morning deliveries to late-night in-depth oven cleaning, as to why he can't spend the night with her in their bed. And each time he crafts his excuse, the look of hurt in her eyes grows, and though it should get easier for him, it's increasingly more difficult. Because each night and day, his not telling her about his little girl is killing him. He fears she will look into his eyes and see his corruption.

He wonders, is it better to be this way and at least still have her in his life? Or should he face up to facts, tell her, watch her leave, and go on with his life without her? Maybe it won't be so bad this time, he thinks, because at least he'll have his daughter to take up some of the time. He sighs deeply, reaching to the nightstand on what used to be her side of the bed to turn off the lamp. How did two such wonderful and weird persons, his two girls, he thinks, become a source of such pain?

Uncharacteristically, unbidden, a silly song lyric flits through his mind. "Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred..." She had dragged him to the multiplex in Hartford to see that musical. He wonders how many times he has made love to her, and with her. Definitely not five hundred twenty-five thousand times, but probably getting near five hundred. Of course, he's too much of a gentleman to ever do something as crass as keep count of how many times they've made love, of how many times he's been inside her--oh god, the softness--or of how many times they've had sex for sex's sake.

And now he's screwed all that up.

He thinks about all the times her mouth has kissed his, and wonders about all the times her mouth has encircled, engulfed his...no. He refuses to count all that. Because then he'd have to count how many times he's returned those kisses, how deep and wet and coffee-tinged her mouth is. How the remnants of coffee combine with the cinnamon of her toothpaste.

He'd have to count that night over a year ago when he kissed her after getting her to stand still in the doorway of an inn, when he finally had the guts to show her his desire. He'd have to count those weeks in Maine, when he spent nights on the phone with her, touching himself as he listened to her bright chatter, pretending all was normal, but she knew, she knew.

It used to be so easy to listen to her. To just go along for the wild roller coaster ride that was her train of thought. Now, through no fault of hers, it hurts so much to listen to her.

From there, his thoughts drift to that first time. The night that turned back the clock for him and turned him into a gawky teenager, shaking, unsure, touching her as if he'd never touched a woman before. And seeing her act the same way, with shaking hands and trembling voice, tentatively reaching out, inquiring if she was "doing it right". The bravado he'd displayed earlier in the evening, with his bold, sure declaration of being all-in, was a false front. At least she had the honesty to not answer him when he'd asked if that scared her; eyes half open, looking up at him, swallowing, nervous.

Would he have to count what happened in the truck on the way home to Stars Hollow? When the tension between them was palpable and thick, and he couldn't guarantee their safety if he continued driving? When he pulled over to the side of the road? He was simultaneously exhilarated and frightened when his hands first touched her breasts, doubly so when his mouth first kissed her breast. He was so sure that she would push him away and complain about the stubble, maybe even open the truck door and run screaming into the night. But she didn't, and over the next year, she would teach him countless variations on how to use that particular feature of his grooming to her advantage. Would he count the way she hesitated for just a second, and then arched her back to him so her breasts were even more accessible? How she reached out to touch him, pulling him closer, so that his world was in his hands, and god how sensitive her nipples were…And the sounds she made…sounds he knew she'd never made with anyone else before.

When the lights from an oncoming vehicle threatened to expose her, he suddenly realized the true power of the word "mine" and wanted to keep her that way. He reluctantly placed his jacket over her as she giggled and huddled against the far side of the truck, so he could drive them home safely.

Home. Ironic that he's in that very place again, his apartment, where his true initiation into the joy of life began.

Does he count what happened after they stumbled their way into the dark, empty diner and then towards the stairs? How she kissed him and touched him all over, delighting in her discoveries? How he irrevocably lost it when she looked into his eyes so sweetly and longingly, then uttered a string of profane admonitions to him? Simultaneously begging and commanding him, they stumbled upstairs, already desperately tugging off one another's clothing.

How many times should he count that night anyways? Because once he figured out that she wasn't going to run screaming into the night, instinct and surety took over. When tongues explored, when her surprisingly soft and delicate tongue traced his gums, he had to have her on the spot.

He remembers all the times over the years that he'd thought about how it would be to make love to her. Perhaps in a frenzied rush their first time, followed by hours of unhurried endless sex. He closes his eyes, remembering how grateful and overcome he was after their first time, not wanting to show her lest she think less of him, kissing her sweetly in the hollow of her throat. How lucky he felt after every time they made love. He remembers her moans; she was his first vocal lover and he could die happy hearing his name on her lips, chanted over and over in a cantata to him.

Would he have to count the times she grabbed hold of him? She loved to run her hands over his shoulders and down his arms, finally grasping onto his forearms. Would he have to count the times her sweet legs rested on his shoulders, her prettily painted feet caressing his stubble, as he plunged into her?

As far as he is concerned, it's as if she's the only woman he's ever been with. She most certainly is the last; he knows this without a doubt. Intellectually, he knows he was married to Nicole, and loved Rachel, had relationships with various other women, and now he knows he fathered a child. But it might as well have been a turkey baster, he thinks, because she so outshines the memory of anyone else. Because until he started keeping secrets, he was wholly hers and she was his.

Mine, he thinks. She's mine, all mine. Hers. I'm hers. But now he's not with her, and he's keeping secrets and in a different home in a different bed, and she's lying in what was supposed to be their marital bed wondering what she's done wrong for him not to be with her. He has to tell her. Because keeping this secret guarantees that his days of burying himself deep inside her body, looking down on her as she arches as he thrusts and grinds, will be over. He knows that his days of watching her look down at him, triumphantly even, as she moves up and down on him, and sideways and forwards and backwards, bracing her hands on his chest, possessing him in more than body, will be over.

Yes, he concludes, he'd have to count all those times. Five hundred times that she ended up beneath him on crumpled sheets…five hundred times that he actually was able to shut her up with his actions, five hundred nights they hoped would never ever end.

Yes, he'd have to count all the times he would think "Mine..." as he looked at her: in public, in private, and everywhere else. He'd have to count all the times he thought: "I'm the luckiest son of a bitch on the planet" as she let him touch her. Let him touch her…he still can't get over that feeling. How lucky beyond words he was.

But it's too much to expect that his luck would last...

He wonders if she'll let him touch her once she knows what he's done, let alone listen to him.

He thinks about darker fantasy side of his love for her. Now if he counts the fantasies, he'll probably get close to five hundred twenty-five thousand. There's one in particular that he likes, and that he's talked about with her in moments so private that she's both serious and mischievous, possessor and possessed. Fantasies that she's even agreed to try out some day. He of course would never really hurt her, would never ever force her into being with him…but he's a man after all. And sometimes, he thinks it might be exciting to be just a bit more forceful. To grab her when she doesn't expect it--maybe at the Dragonfly Inn? Yeah, that would work. Grab her at the Dragonfly Inn and even though she's concentrating on work, push her onto her desk. Shove her skirt up over her hips (of course, the woman always wears a skirt in this sort of fantasy…) He harbors a secret, special fantasy of knocking her off her society pedestal, even knocking her off her pedestal of Ms. Perfect Businesswoman, of letting Mike Armstrong know just exactly who's in charge here…

Yes, he'll have to count the fantasy of shoving her skirt up over her hips while at the same time, tearing her pantyhose to grant himself access. She doesn't talk in this fantasy, of course--she's a country being invaded. He should be ashamed of himself, but then he remembers the fantasies she's told him, that she's promised him they'll act out one day, and he thinks he'll have to tally those too.

He thinks about how safe they both feel with each other. Safe enough to describe the dark side and safe enough to consider acting it out.

But that's not going to happen now, is it? Tell her tell her tell her, the words echo up through the floor of the apartment. Tell. Her.

But he can't. And so he won't.

And soon, it'll be five hundred twenty-five thousand nights that he's sleeping alone. 


End file.
